


See the light

by nieded



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, Morning Sex, PWP, Post-Apocalypse, Unrepentant Fluff, it's just porn, just porn, like there is no plot at all, this is their life now, unbeta'd because idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 18:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20679917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieded/pseuds/nieded
Summary: Crowley tempts Aziraphale into staying in bed.Or:Everything is muted as though somebody turned the record player down low on their lives, just the tinny sound of the hi-hat and Ella James’ voice wafting through the room. The bass--their terror--the drums--their fear--have been dialled down to the lowest level.





	See the light

Aziraphale watches from his side of the bed, legs stretched and crossed at the ankles with a book in his lap. The sun pours in through the windows, muted by a layer of grime and dust, London’s gift, washing Crowley in soft yellow beams. It’s indulgent, unrepentant, how he uncurls. His body stretches towards wakefulness, and he rolls the back of his head against the pillow. He luxuriates. The comforter rests as a heavy weight. It smells of fresh linen and their own bodies and the pages of old books, like papyrus left to dry in the open air, the ink fading in the sunlight. 

Everything is muted as though somebody turned the record player down low on their lives, just the tinny sound of the hi-hat and Ella James’ voice wafting through the room. The bass--their terror--the drums--their fear--have been dialled down to the lowest level.

Crowley’s eyes open in slow dreamy blinks as his arms propelled above his head grow slack. He wakes in degrees, serene, and Aziraphale is content to watch him come to life. He rumbles low and throaty and scratches at his neck, lets his fingers trail down his chest and abdomen, lingering at the waistband of his pyjama bottoms before he curls his fingers in the drawstrings. It’s a simple movement, a routine--a ritual--built from countless mornings and awakenings. Still, it mesmerises Aziraphale who wets his lips.

Crowley catches the movement and grins, showing the sharp points of his teeth. His lips crack at the corners, and Aziraphale chases the desire to lick there, bring moisture and life to that junction of skin. He leans forward and kisses him with a slow, long pressure, pulling away to swipe at the corners of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley groans low and sweet, and his eyes watch his movements, never blinking. Aziraphale unfurls at the attention and does it again, deepening the kiss with pressure and desire welling between them. He shifts his weight to roll on top, bringing his hands up to curl in the short strands of red hair.

Crowley’s let his hair grow out a bit, shaggy and unrestrained. It’s good, curling at the edges, softening the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones, finally at a length where Aziraphale can get a gripful and tug. Crowley arches under him, but it’s slow and languid. He writhes and sighs, the last vestiges of sleep lingering and decelerating their urgency. Even though Aziraphale hasn’t slept and only does so every now and again, he feels it like a heavy weight, an anchor dragging him under the tide. They drown in each other, the sensation of a soft cheek brushing against bone, hands sliding down sides, hips rising to meet through cotton and silk and the fog of desire.

Aziraphale presses down with his chest and hips, the mattress dipping under the force. Crowley melts under the pressure and pulls him down for another kiss, wet and languid, sour with sleep and sweet with want. 

They could go on like this for hours if Aziraphale gives in to the temptation. He feels Crowley pulling at him, the hint of suggestion even without words tugging at his breastbone.  _Fiend_, he thinks. He nips at his throat. They have things to do, a promised lunch and a show in the evening. Crowley lets out a throaty laugh and smiles, shimmying his hips. 

He gives Aziraphale a look, a challenge.  _ Come thwart me then,_ it says. 

Ever indulgent, Aziraphale rolls his eyes and reaches to grip his hair again, tilting his head back so the rest of his spine follows in an arc. Crowley bows tight and lets his eyes roll back. His breath hitches, escaping in short little pants, hot against Aziraphale’s cheek. The last remnants of sleep bleed out, replaced with urgency. He bucks his hips and keens when Aziraphale pulls back so he meets nothing but air. 

Aziraphale has managed a temptation or two in his long lifetime and knows something about want and longing and Crowley. He tightens his grip and lets the demon yearn. His fingers catch on the sheets and leave snags in the fabric which Aziraphale tuts at, releasing him. 

Crowley groans and opens his eyes but bites his lip. He won’t beg, not yet. He looks at the angel who has pulled back to sit on his knees at Crowley’s side, watching with his lips parted and eyes hooded, a flush running down belong the neck of his shirt. 

They do this now, a different game echoing their long history of give and take, of balance. Let go, let go, come chase me, come back to me so I can walk away. Round and round they went. Now they rarely stray from each other, but the same magnetism and repulsion propel their orbits. Crowley hikes up his henley, tight against his torso, to reveal a sparse smattering of hair that leads a plummeting path down to the vee of his hips. He thumbs along his waistband, sighing, scratching at the patch of scales hidden along the ridge of his iliac crest. He savours the sound of Aziraphale’s breath deepening and feels the mattress shift. Eyes closed, he can picture the angel widening the spread of his knees, keening for friction. He feels it too, his own desire cresting in response. 

This feels different in the morning sun compared to their afternoons spent exploring, wings out, stripped down, examining every inch and every crevice; compared to the rush of sex in the evenings late into the night, drunk on wine and a day’s worth of need coalescing between them. Mornings are for softness, for treasure, half-undressed and completely undone. 

Aziraphale watches Crowley’s fingers tangle in the string of his pyjamas for a second before he reaches down and takes his hand, moving it out of the way. He rucks Crowley’s shirt up and tugs at his bottoms, swatting at him to lift his hips. He shoves his own garment down to his knees before stretching out on top of him. Their flesh sears where they meet, the curve of Aziraphale’s soft belly against sharp hip bones, the swell of their erections brushing, silk caressing skin. Crowley’s arms break out in goosebumps against the air, a sharp contrast to the warmth between them. 

They’re tangled in their clothes and limbs, flesh to flesh, hips canting in a languid rhythm. Crowley groans at the dampness growing slick between them, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulders to pull him down and press in close. Aziraphale kisses his neck with open-mouthed presses. He collects the taste of salt and bitter sweat, pulling his earlobe between his teeth. He’s rewarded with Crowley thrusting upwards with a grunt followed by a growl, demanding. 

The bed frame creaks in counterpart to the cacophony of sharp breaths and keening groans, the rustle of their shirts, their skin growing slick with sweat and precome. Crowley can taste it in his mouth, pressing his tongue to his hard palate to savour it before plunging in for more kisses, more skin. They’re drenched in the smell of sweat and sex, dust and old paper, and cotton left too long in the sun, bellies tightening with every rocking movement. 

And, oh goodness, they do this now. They take their pleasure together, feeding off each other’s moans and gripping fingertips. They bite and pull each other’s hair, leave bruises born from a need to press closer, deeper, more. They wrap their arms around each other’s shoulders and bury faces in necks, gasping with each thrust. 

Crowley wraps a spidery leg around Aziraphale, hooking the back of his knee in a jerk downward. He grunts and bows as Aziraphale braces one hand on the headboard, increasing their fervent pace. His muscles tighten and thighs shake as his climax coalesces in the very core of his body, hot and molten. Aziraphale tugs his hair and bites his mouth, tipping him over the edge. He pulses slick between their bodies, wave after wave of pleasure releasing until he grows slack, just a vessel for Aziraphale to rut against once, twice, before spilling over. 

They breathe together. Aziraphale’s limbs grow heavy and liquid, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter, unable and unwilling to move. He feels Crowley smile against his cheek. 

Then he feels a tug under his breastbone, the heart of him, the magic of suggestion old and familiar.  _ Stay_. They have plans, he wants to say. The early morning sun has shifted away from the window, leaving them in shadow. Crowley’s eyes flicker, heavy and relaxed. The itch begs at him, his lover’s beckoning, and he sighs. He miracles away the mess between them and settles his nose in the crook of Crowley’s neck. Temptation accomplished. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been stuck on a couple writing projects, so I decided to take a different approach to break my block. Hope you enjoyed it! <3


End file.
